


Making Amends

by lowstandards



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Bottom Obi-Wan Kenobi (implied), Frottage, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Vaguely set late 1800s or early 1900s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 04:09:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29993667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lowstandards/pseuds/lowstandards
Summary: Anakin and his acting troupe must find shelter from a storm at the country manor of a long last acquaintance, but that’s putting it generously. Anakin spent his life resenting the man, this high and mighty Lord Kenobi, and he’s quite determined to tell him so.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 2
Kudos: 54





	Making Amends

**Author's Note:**

> Look I know I said I’m going to have a posting delay on Grand Master Kenobi so I look like such a liar by posting this but I spent all day writing this, I’ve never written so quickly before. 
> 
> It’s based on an old concept I had YEARS ago and realized it worked very well for Obikin

Wind rages same as the rain, pouring down and spattering mud with each heavy drop. It pelts at skin, razors and anchors against any clothing or anything not pinned down enough. The grass whips like whole chunks of earth might fly up into the air, or instead like the ground might saturate so completely that it just all sinks and melts away. 

“Not to bring anyone down, but I’m not so sure about this plan anymore!”

Best as he could, the leader of their little group turns his head. The one that spoke, a teenage girl, pulls her hood further over her head but it’s already so saturated that it’s useless. White paint splotches down her face and blue streaks from her hair. Many of their party look the same, ink and dirt mixing disgustingly over skin to create blotches of mostly blue, like unnatural bruises. 

She had to yell just to be heard and even then Anakin thinks he only did because she’s a pace behind him. “I told you we should have just stayed in the last town but _no_ , you insisted we were making good enough time—“

“Yeah, yeah, I _know_.” She rubs the back of her hand over her face and it does nothing to help. With the lack of light it proves nearly impossible for any of them to see one another, what with their dark and muddied clothes. “But look Skyguy, there’s a house ahead and we can just stay there—“

Yet even without seeing him properly she hears the anger lacing his tone, “We’ve got tents. The side of the road would be better than anything that’s _there.”_

“Sure we have tents but the ground is _slush_ — Rex, back me up!” Whirling, she grabs the nearest man. She leans up and yells into his ear the details of their little argument and though he grimaces, he nods. 

“Little commanders right. We couldn’t make camp here even if it were our only option and thankfully it isn’t.” Rex’s face shines clear, somehow he already cleaned off the jagged blue arcs formerly decorating his forehead. 

Aching cold seeps through the wet clothes plastered to Anakin as he sighs. He squints, making out the hazy lights of the manor house. It’s still some ways off but even he knows the distance is nothing compared to that from the last town they left. “Fine,” thunder rumbles and again he yells to be heard. “But don’t expect anything! A house like that- there’s no well they’ll let us in.”

“What are you talking about?” Ahsoka stumbles into his side, boots sloshing through the mud of cart tracks on the road. He helps her get her balance back and her eyes glisten this close to his face. “Anyone with base human decency would let us in!”

Anakin doesn’t voice it, but he agrees. It’s exactly why he expects nothing. A manor house surrounded by nothing for miles has no reason to anticipate guests. They can at least hope it’s occupied— it’s summer, and the warmth draws even the most city-adoring socialites out to their country estates to enjoy a little sun and shine. Of course, they also get the odd summer storm or so. And this one? Well it’s one of the worst Anakin’s known for a long time, though generally he doesn’t take those measurements by soaking to the bone out in the middle of them. 

Getting to the house, even though they finally have a concrete goal, goes as well as can be expected. Ahsoka slips and stumbles quite a few more times, taking Rex or one of the other men with her when she decides to latch onto them rather than walk unaided. The rain lets up not at all and the thunder only draws closer, rumbling in visible waves over the horizon. Dark clouds and streaming claps of lightning approach them as Anakin finally knocks on the door, fingers slippery when pressing the bell. 

“Should I beg, break down crying to make sure they let us in?” Ahsoka grins. Anakin can see her better in the front porch light pouring out of the house and he shoots her a glare. 

“Don’t you dare. You got us in this mess—“

“The sky was clear! Sure it was windy but how was I supposed to know it was going to storm?! Not like you knew either _Skyguy_ —“

The door opening ends their squabbling and Anakin has to catch the girl one last time as her muddied boot slips on the stone steps. 

The golden glow of a warm and clean interior envelops the party, mud spattered and disarrayed, probably reeking of everything they’ve trudged through. A man, a butler denoted by his crisp and flawless uniform, opens the door as barely as he likes and Anakin ensures his not paint dotted face is the one visible to him. “I am so sorry sir,” for the sake of his sore throat he is glad not to tell just to get his voice out anymore. The man behind the door has a face notable for his wide, bright eyes and an apparently unchangeable look of both surprise and offense. His light hair shone metallically bright, like copper or gold, under the effects of flickering candles. And he, for all his stuck up pride, was dry and warm while Anakin suppresses a chill-wracked shiver. “As you can see, my friends and I have been caught out in this storm and we would be grateful to get out of the wet—“

“Yes, yes, go around back then. There’s no sense letting you in through the _front_ door!” The man chirps and Ahsoka sways to Anakin’s side again. 

“Your path is flooded!” She still hollers when she needn’t and Anakin squeezes her arm to get her to calm down. She’s right, and he knows that. The gravel and dirt around the house turned to the same slush as the roads and finding their way to the back entrance would be harder than climbing through one of the windows. 

At least the butler sympathizes enough to offer that and, at Ahsoka’s words, he cringes. Anakin watches him war with himself before he pulls the door further open. “Alright, be quick about it and don’t track any mud! Oh maker—“ he hops back when Ahsoka wastes no time stepping out of the rain and behind her, Rex and the rest of their troupe follows. Anakin waits to see them all safely in before the butler shuts the great door behind them. It’s heavy as it slides into place, more impressive alone than most of the places Anakin has lived. Just a door worth more than his whole life. 

Not even just the door catches his attention. Before them all - and he notices heads turning to admire paintings and gilded mirrors, a chandelier and endless ornamentation - the great hall expands with luxurious glory. Color, vibrancy, history, and wealth shine down on them. Plaques displaying family sigils and coats of arms tack at even intervals on pillars of the second story gallery. A staircase of flawless dark wood rolls down from above, softened with an elegant runner— everything screams refined elegance. 

“Quick please,” The butler speaks again in rapid, hushed tones, waving with rather stiff posture to a door close by, “through there and downstairs.” Anakin nods with his thanks ready on his lips but another door across the room opens. It must be a parlor or drawing room but Anakin cannot remember the rotations of rooms and their times of days that matters only to those who have the time to waste on such things. Such as the man that steps into the hall. “What is this?” He asks not unkindly, voice clear and richly accented. 

The butler goes from his rushed indignation of before to bowing apologies before Anakin can even blink, so he takes the chance to speak for himself. “I am sorry to impose on you and your house but with the storm we had no other choice but to find shelter.”

The man - the master of this house, so obviously - scans their group idly before looking at Anakin, and only Anakin. “The next village is another ten miles off and we came too far to turn back to the last town. It’s flooded out there and your man has been kind enough to let us in and out of the storm. I only ask we stay long enough to dry before—“

“Nonsense.” His shoulders straighten. Curiosity does not fade from the crease between his brows but resolute approval filled out his posture a little more solidly. A kindness lay behind it, humor even. “You can stay the night. God knows there’s no pretending I don’t have the room. Daniels, please put our guests where you see fit. _Any_ room is available to them.”

With that the master nods again and steps back into the room from which he came and the butler, Daniels apparently, returns to ushering them downstairs. In the last moment, he swore the gentleman paused with something still lingering on his face and Anakin did not move until the door to whatever study or drawing room lay beyond there shut. 

Beneath the estate’s primary levels, for those of high and laudable status, were the rooms allotted to staff. With each step down, the stairs creak with well worn and well loved wood, trodden over generations. While the hall smelled of clean and perfumed aesthetic, the deeper they went, warm spice fills the air. Even from the back Anakin hears Ahsoka groan her anticipation for food in whatever capacity they get it. It does not help that Jesse enables her and remarks he could probably eat a cow. 

Daniels continues to hush them, a stickler for manners it seems, as he leads them through to the dining table. The array of staff members is neither extensive nor impressive— a kindly woman Anakin assumes to be the cook, begins fussing over the group and particularly Ahsoka as soon as they step in. She screeches about wet clothes and stoking the fire and finding some dry things and warm food for them. There is a girl she sends off to find such a meal, and a boy younger than Anakin but older than Ahsoka who huffs off on the errand of finding other clothing. 

Rex tries for amiability, “We do have spare stuff—“

“In your packs?” The cook drawls, rolling her eyes. “The packs that are soaked through? Yeah, fat lot of good any of that will do you. Give me those bags and I can hang your wet things up in our wash room.” She extends her arms, making grabbing motions with her hands and not accepting any hesitation, even when Rex still tried to insist he didn’t want to bother. Well she did and left no room to argue. 

Eventually the girl came back bearing food. Warm bread and a rich stew that smelled phenomenal and tasted even better. Anakin could not recall when he last tasted something this good, almost good enough to make him cry if he was honest. Or really, it wasn’t just the taste that has him swallowing a sob, but the idea of it- warmth and comfort and these people, strangers, who care enough to see that his friends are cared for. 

“What were you doing in the storm?” The hall boy asks when he returns, arms laden with clothes and blankets of all sorts. “And why’ve you got paint on your face?” He adds when Ahsoka keeps rubbing at her skin to try and get the cakey clumps off of her. 

“We were walking,” Anakin answers unhelpfully and swears _murder_ glimmers in the boy’s eyes. 

“We’re an acting troupe,” Ahsoka rolls her eyes at him and stuffs a tear of bread into her mouth. The girl comes back in with a basin of water and cloths so Ahsoka and the others can properly clean away their dirt while they eat. Proper baths can come later, he supposes, but would not be surprised if this ample hospitality did not extend so far. Even if the master upstairs offered up his whole house to them, such a luxury beyond that stretched the bare minimum decency into open generosity. Anakin expects to see little of the latter. 

Ahsoka swallows - clearly kept too much in her mouth all at once for the way she has to catch her breath - and continues. “We were part of a show this morning, and we’re a traveling group, you see— We travel with a bunch of other performers and set up shows wherever, but we’re like our own group. Our own acts, our own tents, that sort of stuff. Well, we finished up early and we figured - _I figured-_ “ she corrects herself when she catches Anakin looking on blandly in obvious disagreement. “We might as well get started to the village over, should be a quick trip, right? Worst case we spend a night on the road, not like we haven’t done that before. We’d have time to get to the village over, run some small acts which mostly help get our name out to more local types, then pack up and head back to town and be ready to join the rest of the caravan once they hit the road. Since that was our plan, we left our actual carts and horses in town and well— It was _nice_ this morning! A strong wind but we’ve had worse, no well to tell this storm was gonna blow in!” 

Ahsoka flops back in her chair. Anakin doesn’t really blame her since anyone could make that mistake and even if she proposed it, the decision was _mutual_. But he’s still going to hold it over her head a long time to come. She’s got a lot of fire and he loves that, but she’s young and still learning the risks of a life on the road. 

The water sloshes muddied in the bowl on the table, but for the first time all day the faces of his partners are clean. Rex runs a hand over his always neatly-trimmed hair and suppresses a yawn. “Paint’s part of the gig,” he nods. They’ve even got the butlers attention, staff sitting enthralled around this table of strangers - artistic bohemian types. Actors, acrobats, the stuff of kids stories and such. Anakin knows how it sounds but it’s not all that romantic. He met Rex and his family ages ago, left on the outskirts of a city because no one would take them in, even if they were kind and hard working, all over prejudice. And Ahsoka, well Snips never did tell him what happened to her family before they met and he knew better than to ask. 

“We’re not _clowns_ ,” Ahsoka huffs again, last bits of blue dye running out of her braids and mixing into sludge over her brown skin. She rinses her hands once more and when she dries them, Anakin can see the surprise at the softness of the towel. She deserves more than what their life allows them. 

“But the paint excites people, gets the audience to really look at you, and helps them see you better. And it's part of our _acts_ .” She wiggles her eyebrow and elbows Rex, who just shakes his head endeared. “Like _I’m_ the Commander. Stage names, that sort of thing.” From the way her grin stretches on her face, pride doesn’t even begin to cover her feelings. 

“So can you juggle?” The kitchen girl timidly asks and Fives - heaven help her, for all of the people to answer - laughs. 

“ _Juggle?_ We can do way more than that!” But he grabs three knives off the table and sets to flinging them in the air. The cook nearly shrieks and even the oh-so-composed Butler gasps but Fives is no amateur. He sports not so much as a nick when he sets the utensils down again. It doesn’t matter that Jesse snorts and calls him a show off because he’s won over the estate’s staff. 

While they set to hurling more questions and they are eaten up eagerly by the group, Anakin excuses himself. With food in his stomach he cannot stand the wet fabric clinging to him any longer and he accepts what has been offered. He finds the washroom to change and when he peels out of his shirt, chills prickle up his spine. Hurriedly he redresses, letting warm cotton and wools and linen embrace the lean lines of his body. They fit well enough, the shirt perhaps too large but once he straps up the braces he’s sure he looks presentable enough. 

Returning to the dining hall, Anakin nods to Daniels and beckons him to the corridor that adjoins the different utilitarian rooms. Fives is still praising himself a room away but Anakin catches the butler’s attention by stating lowly, “I would like to thank the Master here properly before he goes to bed.” It felt wrong to do less than that, even if Anakin felt his stomach already roiling at the discomfort of even stepping into the man’s presence again. 

“Lord Kenobi?” The butler’s eyes widen impossibly more, “I cannot approve of interrupting him even more—“

“If you do not lead me up there then I will go find him for myself.” Anakin watches the man’s conflict again, his feelings always displayed surprisingly unsubtle for one of his job title. One might expect more composure yet Anakin’s thankful for the lack of it. It precedes the man’s acquiescence before he actually voices it, and when he does it’s with a disgruntled little huff and they go trotting back up the stairs. 

After such a welcome downstairs, the impersonal yet abundant life of the upstairs startles Anakin again. It makes his skin crawl with some itch he can’t name let alone scratch.

It’s the study, that’s where Daniels brings him, the room where the master, this Lord Kenobi, came from and returned to. And it’s there where he remained, unknowingly waiting for Anakin. 

“Sir, so sorry to intrude but-“

“Yes?” Weariness laces his voice and Anakin sees no reason for the lord to cut off the man before he has the chance to finish his words. 

“Yes sir, one of the guests has requested to thank you for his hospitality.”

Anakin glances around the study and finally to the man sitting in the center of it. Before a fireplace, lounge and two armchairs stretch on an intricately detailed rug. Much like the main hall the room is awash with art, yet here too the walls are adorned with shelves filled with books. Tomes of all sorts, some even spread open on display as if one many could possibly find constant de of them all. Anakin considers it a show, like these are all props to lend authenticity to the figure before him. Lord Kenobi in his leather chair with haughty exhaustion tensing his shoulders and lining his face. He stands, smoothing creases that aren’t even there. The excellence of his evening attire practically shimmers in comparisons to Anakin’s humble adornments.

“Thank you,” the Lord nods and Anakin isn’t so stubborn he can’t admit that the sentiment at least looks genuine on his face. “You may leave Mister…?”

“Skywaker.” He introduces himself with the same confidence-edging-defiance with which he spoke in the hall. 

“Yes, you may leave Mr. Skywalker with me. That will be all Daniels, and there will be no need to disturb us again.” While Anakin again knew the phrase is not meant unkindly, he notices the butler startle at the dismissal before nodding his head and departing. Clearly he respects his master but Anakin can’t imagine why. 

Lord Kenobi steps from his chair by the fire to a long table set by the window. A drinking cart displaying quite the array sits beside it, glinting with reflections from lightning and rain just outside. Thunder still rolls unceasingly. They decanter clinks as Lord Kenobi unstoppers it and pours a glass. Ever so slightly, the gentleman turned and held up the brandy, raising an eyebrow at Anakin. 

“You needn’t offer me anything, sir.” Yet when he turns back there is the distinct sound of a second pour. His steps fall solid, slightly muffled by the carpet as he circles around the table. The dark majesty of the room shrouds him so he in his coat and fine shirt is just as gilded as his material possessions. He leaves the glass free for Anakin to take. 

He clears his throat and clasps one hand in the other. If he had a hat he’d be wringing it, not that he wants his anxiety so on display. “I just, I mean as your man said… I just wanted to thank you for letting us stay the night. I didn’t properly take the chance to do so in the hall.”

“There’s no need. This storm is terrible. I would have to be some monster to leave you out in it.” There’s a ring on one of his fingers and it clinks against his glass as he sips. When he looks out the rain pounding his window, neither of them speak. Another bolt of lightning streaks the sky and Anakin resents how thankful he must be to this man. 

Having barely stepped into the study in the first place, he does not move. He’s not even near enough to feel the heat of the fire and it does no more than cast stretching shadows across his face.

Even with that angry hesitation brewing in him, he manages his voice just above a whisper. “You don’t remember me, do you, Lord Kenobi?”

The Lord shifts back from the window. The same barely there hesitation from the hallway graces his face. “No,” he answers and no one word has inspired such instant hate in Anakin before. 

It’s enough for him not to pretend to seem so awed and dignified before this gentleman. He scoffs openly, “Of course not. Why would you? You and your grand manor, your estate— why would you remember anyone or anything beneath you?”

And just as Anakin ignores the custom and deference expected of him, Lord Kenobi displays his displeasure willingly. “I am sorry I cannot remember you and how I’ve _wronged_ you but speak plainly or leave this room at once. You are welcome to stay the night but not to hurl accusations at me.”

“It isn’t just some accusation, _Lord Kenobi_ .” He turns the simple title into such an insult with a deft tongue, dripping venom. “We met years ago. I was just a boy and you weren’t much more than one yourself either. You came to my town, you and your father. I met him and he was kind and saw that my life wasn’t as glamorous as yours- he said he wanted to help me.” Anakin stops, voice darkening in throaty memories and pain and hurt and _disgust_. 

Tension rises in the man’s shoulder again, as sharp as the crackling flashes beyond his walls. A phantom of recognition plays in his voice. “What town was this?” 

Anakin does not care to answer. “He must’ve thought I was fun and good with my hands or something. He offered to take me from there and buy me like the common good I was so I could live with him. I don’t know what he intended- farm hand, errand boy, certainly not his _ward_ .” Finally Anakin steps forward and eyes Kenobi. Something burns inside him even he cannot quite name. For well over a decade he has known this house and this man by name and reputation, unable to put pictures to ideas. If it weren’t for Ahsoka’s well-meaning plan, he could have avoided this entirely. But the temptation was too great, it compelled the request of his tongue and his feet up the stairs because he _needed_ to see this man again. When he moves the Lord straightens not with that same cautious rigidity but with a _confidence_ , standing his ground against an intruder, determined not to shy away from the storm he let in. 

“Then he let me meet you and I'll never forget that—“ Anakin sneers and comes close enough now to accept his glass. Amber liquid swirls inside, rich and smooth and very similar to the fire light shining just so off of the Lord’s hair. Polished and precise. “You saw me, in my rags and squalor and smiled like you were trying not to laugh. You said things you thought I couldn’t hear and then suddenly your father lost interest. Suddenly he didn’t want me anymore. You left, both of you, because I was some passing fancy for him and it didn’t really matter.”

“That’s not true.” Kenobi speaks with more clarity now and oh how his voice carries such an authority. Lilting accent. Smooth like the brandy when Anakin takes his first sip. 

“Is it now?” Anakin laughs bitterly. Raising that glass to his lips, he swallows. Darkened blue eyes track the movement, how his collar reveals the bob of his throat and then stretched further down. It’s a borrowed garment and not really meant to be worn alone, an under shirt, and here Anakin stands, careless of that. A sigh passes his lips and he raises his brows like a passing remark on the fine quality of the liquor. 

Kenobi cannot find it within himself the desire to take another sip because it could not compare to the effect of this stranger’s eyes alight with a flame of unsubtle determination. Vindication. _He_ let this man in and he need only ring a bell to have him thrown out. But that bell is on the other side of the room and to reach it would require crossing near Anakin and that surely cannot be done. 

“Then tell me, my Lord, why he built my hopes up at all. Because you see, people don’t like when kids get too big for themselves in the slums— no, no one likes when you get starry eyed with dreams and aspirations because there’s no place for that there. But you and your father came with his promises that I could have a better life and I could be free and then he took it away and ruined my life.”

“That’s not—“

“It is! Because if either of you had the mind to think of anyone besides yourself for even a moment you might have realized what you’d done!” Anakin’s glass clacks down almost hard enough to shatter. Empty. The table and drinking cart are the only thing that separate them. Behind him, the windows creak under torrents of rain. 

“Did you ever go back? Did you ever _care_ ? Did you ever wonder about the boy who you handed a future only to take it away? And _why—_ why do any of it? Some amusement to tease the lower classes with the possibility of ascension? Or did you really consider it— did you really want to help me because it would make you look so much better, so noble for helping out some poor common kid—“

“It wasn’t like that!” Lord Kenobi forgets - or ignores - his decorum and dignity as he bites back. These are memories best left laid to rest and they are _his_ memories, Obi-Wan’s not this stranger’s, not Anakin’s who has no right to come here and disgrace his father. 

Yet he comes closer still, hips flush to the other side of the table. Need flares and he does not know whether to fear the storm behind him or the fury in front of him more. 

Anakin tilts his head so he’s looking down his nose, eyes lidded and condescending. “Really—“

“Yes,” Obi-Wan hisses, setting his glass down with more composure. His is only half tasted. “My father wanted to take you away from there, he always told me it wasn’t right that anyone should be forced to live like that, but especially a child. I don’t know why he picked you but it certainly wasn’t to _mock_ you or make _himself_ feel better.”

“You _left_ .” This man all but snarls and it leaves Obi-Wan in agony. Yes, they left. He knows this without the physical, _spitting_ reminder before him. 

“There was a man,” he speaks gravely, angry and not wanting to relive any of this. “He disliked my father, _hated_ him. A few business and political disputes and then... My father knew something about him that couldn’t get out. He never told me. That man sent a fixer after my father and when we were in town. When we met you, that’s when he caught up to us. We had no choice but to leave as soon as possible.”

“Why should I believe that?”

Obi-Wan’s face hardens, a well practiced and refined neutrality. “Because my father died shortly after we left. That assassin killed him.”

Maybe guilt flashes on Anakin's face but it is followed by that forced haughty air, denying himself any sympathy. So Obi-Wan speaks another truth. 

“And do not ever again accuse my father of not caring or not knowing the extent of his actions. He died in my arms and the last thing he said was to _find the boy_... When he died he thought only of you.”

Anakin spent his life haunted by the repercussions of a noble man’s passing fancy and here, to undo that grudge and grief, the man’s son - _complicit_ in his ruination - sends him reeling. He startled back but a new flash of fury explodes on his face. 

“And why didn’t you? Why didn’t you find me?”

“Because by the time I brought my father home and buried him and took care of the urgent businesses of the estate, by the time I sent word to the town where we met you, you couldn’t be found!” Lord Kenobi keeps his feet dutifully rooted because he will not engage with such a display but there is some desire brewing inside him to just leap across the table, to yell and do _something_ to let out a frustration pent up over years, not just moments. 

“I sent a messenger first, then a second one, and then I went myself and you weren’t there.”

“No.” Again Anakin scoffs, clearly always so full of disdain that he can manage nothing else. He is a pendulum swinging from disgust to anger. “I’d already been kicked out by then.”

“And I am sorry for that but don’t you see that I _tried_ ? And my father was genuine?” Obi-Wan takes a step back, trying to slowly go to the farther end of the table, away from Anakin. If he can only get around it, he can get to the rope for the bell easily; he can call for someone and put these old ghosts to _rest_. 

“Knowing what he intended doesn’t make any of it better, it doesn’t changed what happened—“

“And coming here _does_ ? Lashing it all out at _me_ , that’s your answer? What is it that you want? If it’s money then feel free to take it, I don’t care!” He does manage it, getting to the end of the table. Of course, that’s the easier part because once he crosses that threshold he is on the same side as Anakin. Four legs and a plan of sturdy mahogany don’t barricade him anymore. No, just being on the same side as him is infinitely more dangerous. This man watches him like a predator— it makes his skin itch and the back of his neck sweat. The fire feels sweltering the closer to it he gets, but the rope is right next to the fireplace so he _must_ cross it to end this all.

“For a week I thought my life would mean something. I thought I could be like _you_ , grow up to be some promising young man but look at us now _my Lord_ —“ Anakin stalks forward for every step back that Obi-Wan takes. He moves so easily, like this room is his, this domain is his and Obi-Wan is the lord of nothing. “You in your manor, me with my dirt and my rag tag group. and here I am still coming to you for aid. _You_ , so polished and clean and just cannot be bothered with the likes of me, can you? I’m just a problem for you to brush away again.” 

Anakin takes another step forward and Obi-Wan's back hits the wall. The nobleman raises a hand up, it’s just there and he only needs to— “So are you going to pull that chain then?”

“What do you _want_ ?” Obi-Wan grits into the space between them. He cannot deny the flush on his face, the heat through his body. They are right by the fire, he blames that and not that Anakin is so close. His breath hits Obi-Wan’s collar which is so nicely and neatly done up while _Anakin's_ is not. Never done up buttons reveal the expanse of tan skin on his chest, all muscle and sun-kissed. He swallows. 

For a moment, Anakin's eyes melt, soft pools of blue that flicker with the fire light. There’s a hunger behind them. A desperation. An answer. Obi-Wan’s hand is curled into a fist and _he just needs to_ —

But Anakin leans in their lips brush barely at first, and then with growing surety he truly presses in. Obi-Wan can taste the brandy they shared and a wetness like smoke and rain. His hand lets go without thinking and he hasn’t even realized until it’s grabbing onto Anakin instead. He moans and he cannot help but grip the man by his shoulder and haul him closer. 

Anakin’s lips slide down, his teeth catch at Obi-Wan’s bottom lip and then there are lips and teeth and tongue on his throat and a hand deftly loosening his tie and his collar. Everything feels wet, the heat of a mouth on his throat and he knows there’s a storm outside but there’s one right here too. 

He gasps when Anakin’s thigh shoves between his legs and Anakin, looking delighted and dark and hungry drinks up his wanton moans when their lips surge together again. It is almost too much and almost too quick. A moment before this man threw accusations and Obi-Wan let him for much longer than he should— and now Obi-Wan rocks into the blissful friction of this near-strangers thigh. 

“Why—“

“Just shut up.” Anakin growls as he finally undoes Obi-Wan’s shirt enough that he can bite at his collar bone and yeah- that’s fine he can shut up because all the thoughts in his head are melting away anyways. He feels himself moved away from the wall - like Anakin doesn’t trust him to not ring that bell but really he would never - and he mourns the pressure of Anakin pressed entirely against him. He _whines_ at the loss until he finds himself shoved down into one of his arm chairs. 

The drop shocks him and he blinks his eyes clear enough to see how Anakin really looks in the light. His eyes burn black with blown wide pupils, his skin golden and cast half in shadow where the fire does not reach. There is a scar over his right eyebrow and it stretches to kiss at the top of his cheekbone. Obi-Wan swears it is a face he saw in his art books, hailed by his teachers for its depiction of the aesthetic ideal. A David or Adonis for the ages. Though there is something else there, more like the depictions of a fallen angel, a Lucifer made within that past century. All the artists only decades ago who decided the embodiment of sin might appear as beautiful as man—

But Anakin palms his cock through his pants and all that revelry scatters away, replaced with want and need. “Oh _fuck—_ “ he gasps out, a bitten off noise. 

Anakin’s grin is shit-eating and _delightful_. “Oh my, Lord Kenobi, I never expected a mouth on you.”

“It’s Obi-Wan.” Palm pressing harder, his fingers run up the outline of his arousal and he’s so sensitive to it he almost jerks away from the touch. Anakin’s other hand comes to grip his hip and anchors him so instead of moving away he rolls into it. The man has his legs splayed open and he’s kneeling between them, there’s little pretending he has dignity or composure left, not when Obi-Wan thinks if Anakin were to stop he might die. 

“Alright then, _Obi-Wan_ .” While his title sounded an insult from Anakin’s lips, _this,_ his name, is a prayer. And this grand master of a fine estate, this _Lord_ , he sighs and suddenly this man could do anything to him. Fuck him, take him, ruin him. He reaches out and takes Anakin’s face in his hands and shoves their lips together in this mess of groans and need and tongue and teeth. 

“I—“ Obi-Wan loses his words and his voice tumbles out of him in a moan as Anakin's hand skirts under the fabric of his clothing. Though it’s a less intimate touch now, just the splay of his hand on Obi-Wan’s ribs, that much skin and heat makes him fall pliant against the chair. 

“Yes?” Anakin nips at his neck, at his earlobe and down his throat. He’s a tease, a glorious, delicious, heaven-sent tease. “Do you need something Obi-Wan?”

He rolls into every touch and _yes_ . He needs more, so much more than this that he hardly even knows what. “Yes,” and he’s panting. Why has this man already undone him, storming in with his rage and his indignation— “ _Anakin_.”

“Tell me, tell me and it’s yours.” The man breathes into his ear and he pulls back just enough so they can watch each other as he waits for an answer that Obi-Wan longs to give. 

“Please,” he begs and Anakin looks at him, really looks at him. Though his hands don’t move they’re waiting for permission. A single phrase, a single request hangs in the balance and separates Obi-Wan from a decision he knows there is no going back from. “I need you, Anakin. Fuck me, please, I—“

Their mouths crash together again. Anakin yanks both hands down to undo Obi-Wan’s trousers and Obi-Wan reaches out to pull at his clothes in return. He can feel the outline of Anakin’s cock and somehow he did not know he needed such a reassurance that _this,_ whatever it is, is mutual. Anticipation thrums in his fingertips and flickers and insatiable as the fire. 

Why does he need this man, so long absent from his life and so tied to memories he cannot stand— Why does he suddenly ache for him and his smile that holds secrets and eyes that hold a cosmos. Why he wants this— Maybe he’s lonely, in this manor with no family with a staff that try as he might never view him as a friend or an equal. He understands, it’s to protect themselves, and it’s because they _do_ have those they can go home to. He just has this: empty rooms usually draped and covered up with fabric. 

And now there’s this man from his past who forced his way in and waited for nothing to take what he wants and Obi-Wan is so willing to give it. 

There’s too many clothes between them and Anakin can’t care enough to undo them all. This man, pliant and practically writhing beneath him, unfastens his braces and shoves his shirt up in the same swift movement he forces his trousers down. Anakin gasps and finds purchase in Obi-Wan, his body steady and reclined on the chair, and he grips at the nape of his neck, the curve of his shoulder. He's breathing hot onto the skin there and can feel Obi-Wan practically tremble. His name sounds a desperate, wanting plea off the man’s lips, “ _Anakin-_ “

“I want to, but I can’t.” Anakin sighs, pressing his lips in a gentle kiss below Obi-Wan’s jaw. He means it and as if to prove his desire, he works his hand over Obi-Wan’s cock. The flash of disappointment on his face turns to ecstasy. Anakin’s fingers flit down the base, knuckles brushing the inside of his thigh before the pad of his index travels his perineum and then to his entrance, tight and untouched. “I can’t. I don’t have anything to make it easier. I won’t hurt you.” Anything would be a poor and uncomfortable substitute and Anakin won’t even consider doing less than preparing Obi-Wan gently. If he cannot do it slowly, working him open in careful ministrations, with attention and admiration that he deserves, then he finds the idea not worth doing, even if he wants it. 

Because he does. More than anything he wants Obi-Wan, a vision of pleasure, warm and wrapped around his cock, moaning with each slow thrust. How he’d arch into it, flush creeping down his chest and finally let go of that proper air. 

Obi-Wan’s eyes widen, that concerned furrow in his brow melts away. “Oh, of course. Of course dear one,” he reaches his hand out and his thumb glides over Anakin’s cheek, just touching the tail end of his scar. It’s a slow movement, their eyes meeting one another as Anakin turns his head into the touch, until Obi-Wan’s thumb brushes the corner of his lip. The idea, this kindling desire, occurs to them in saccharine unison; two of Obi-Wan’s fingers slide into the plush heat of Anakin’s mouth. 

His lordship's skin is soft and there is a faint hint of a cigarette smoked some time before. Anakin does not look away, not as he sucks and laves his tongue across the minuscule whorls and all these marks that make Obi-Wan so characteristically him. And Obi-Wan does not shy away either, eyes only shifting to watch the strand of spit that connects them as his fingers slide out. 

Guiding Obi-Wan’s hand between them, their cocks brush together and with spit-slick fingers easing the friction the caress of it is divine. Their moans string out in tandem and when Anakin adds his hand, gripping hard and knocking their knuckles together, Obi-Wan almost yells at how perfect it is. His voice comes out too loud, choked and desperate and it fades into a moan. Anakin's lips are at his cheek, kissing and shushing him. “You can’t make so much noise,” because in this old empty house, sounds echo. Everyone else might be a floor below but they can’t risk it. 

With his other hand Anakin grips Obi-Wan’s thigh and hoists him higher against the back of the armchair— it punches the breath out of Obi-Wan. “You know I never forgot you, the lord and his son that tried to steal me away. Tried to _save_ me.” 

Anakin’s eyes travel the disheveled mess of Obi-Wan’s collar, the marks he left that would bloom just low enough to remain out of sight. There was that clear intensity to his blue-grey eyes, like the sky just before a storm, crackling with expectation. “I thought of it all the time, thought of you— started having dreams too. I couldn’t help it, you were always there in my head as I kept imagining, what if you came back for me?” 

Anakin’s hand pumps leisurely, with harsh strokes and each one edges Obi-Wan closer to a high he’s never known. There are calluses to Anakin’s fingers that further every ministration and wrap Obi-Wan in over-sensitive euphoria. Even if Anakin isn’t grinning now, isn’t stalking him against the wall either, he feels that sort of predatory focus. It’s like being stripped bare and put on display, all by the way Anakin looks at him, all by the way that he sucks bruises into his skin like he’s making up for something. 

“I wanted to,” Obi-Wan sobs, pleasure wracking through him as arousal pools low in his gut, climax building all too rapidly. “I promise you, I wanted to, I tried—“

“Did you really forget me?” Anakin cannot tell if he means for accusation to drip into his voice- maybe he meant it teasingly, lightly and unrevealing. Yet a tremor escapes in that question. And Obi-Wan, with his panting breath and reddened cheeks, his hair knocked out of place and his shirt undone, visibly searches for his answer. 

He seeks it like Anakin’s hand isn’t trapping their cocks together and twisting perfectly at the head, precum smearing with the spit and sweat and blissful friction. He is caught in ecstasy and expectation at the same time. When he answers with honesty burning between them, in their singing blood and in their eyes, it’s there in his voice too, subtle and sure as he breathes “No, I didn’t.”

This kiss is long and sweet, a searching, pining loss made right, finally. It’s Anakin giving in as he wouldn’t that first moment in the doorway. It’s the way Anakin melted when Obi-Wan asked what he wanted. 

Obi-Wan remembers the boy who looked at them with awe, the boy who was his father’s dying wish and when he could not find him, once again he wasn’t good enough. Now he could make it right, but not to make good on some long kept promise but because he could never give this up ever again. 

Anakin pulls back just barely and Obi-Wan chases it and swears “And I won't leave you again.”

It’s a chant, a promise as his hands find Anakin. One snakes into his hair and the other grips his arm. “Not again, Anakin,” because he’s gasping with Anakin’s hand moving over them both, hips rocking into it. 

There’s one final kiss, just below his ear, a phantom imprint of Anakin’s lips as this beautiful stranger in his ancient god-like glory, bleeding darkness and passion and something else too, molten heat coursing in his eyes and his touch, as the stranger who is all of that and so much more says “I’ll stay.”

That is all it takes for Obi-Wan to come, arching and throwing his hand over his mouth to keep from crying out. He’s keening, electricity shooting through his nerves as sharp and torrential as the storm rattling his windows. He's still edging out of that high as he rolls his hips forward to rock against Anakin - over-sensitive, too much yet perfect at the same time. 

“Come for me, Anakin, and stay for me.” 

And Anakin does. His eyes close and his head knocks forward so his nose presses into Obi-Wan’s neck. The shuddering heaves of his breath push them both against the chair, carried by the weight of him losing his stance angled over Obi-Wan. Whether it’s comfortable for him or not, this impressive lord finds a way to cradle Anakin's body to his, slumped and relaxed together. Anakin mouths at his throat, gentle and not as urgent as moments before. 

Obi-Wan huffs “You’re insatiable,” and his fingers tangle into the untamed curls of his hair. 

“And you’re begging to be undone again and again.” Anakin traces over the small marks he’s left and under the touch Obi-Wan flushes. It’s true, but not for anyone else. 

“Is that what you will do to me? Make me come undone? Will you ruin me, Anakin Skywalker?” The fire sparks its warm embrace around them. Obi-Wan slowly becomes aware of the discomfort of his bare ass against his armchair, the tacky sweat of their skin sticking together. 

Anakin is warm, exuding heat in each breath and caress. This was a home promised to him years ago in his youth but he does not view it as that now. This is Obi-Wan’s, this is his life and his estate and he understands all that entails better than Anakin ever will. Besides, he doesn’t want to be some lord, he doesn’t want all the riches laying around him because they never would satisfy him. 

His thumb traces the white fabric of Obi-Wan’s shirt and presses right into his sternum. Under the clothing and skin and muscle, his heart pumps away, a little too fast, a little too telling. 

Anakin does not really know what he came up here intending to do. Whatever he wanted to prove to himself certainly was not this. Anakin smiles and he can see how Obi-Wan waits for it. “Only as long as you’ll have me.”

Which, it turns out, might be forever.

**Author's Note:**

> I really intended this to be more porn less feelings but whoops 🧡
> 
> Kudos and Comments VERY appreciated, as always  
> Please come yell at me on [tumblr](https://lowstandards.tumblr.com)


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